Things I Wish I Had Known #1: We All Have Our Scarlet Letters

I wish I had known at 25 that mental health problems are just as painful and real as physical health problems. Anyone who has met me will identify me as a crier. Truly, I cried everyday during kindergarten. To be fair, I haven’t ruled out the possibility that my kindergarten teacher wasn’t the offspring of a Disney villain. Generally, I know why I’m crying: I’m frustrated, someone hurt my feelings, I think I hurt someone’s feelings, I’m tired or hungry, or I just watched that Christmas commercial with the grandma and the little kid. It takes about three notes on some songs for my eyes to start watering. I don't cry nearly as easily as I did as a child now, but I'm a firm believer that a good cry is healthy from time to time as long as I know why I'm crying.

At 25, I had strep. I went to the doctor, I took the antibiotic, and I continued life as normal. Within a few months, I realized life was not normal. The tears came first. I could not stop myself from crying. I would cry before work, and as soon as I closed the car door behind me at the end of the day, I would start to cry again. On some days, I even managed to cry at work in a teacher's lounge before the bell rang for the next class or meeting. My bosses didn't realize it though one did tell me I needed to smile more; my internal reaction to that comment is exactly what you would expect. Somehow, I managed to hold things together long enough that students didn't see it. I also got incredibly good at lying about why my eyes watered: allergies, an eye lash, shampoo from my morning shower. Given that I don't have a tendency to lie, lying that much didn't help me feel better about myself.

Then, I started to pull away from people. I became a flake of a friend. I would agree to plans but cancel at the last minute because I couldn't hold up the facade. In one of the worst moments, I canceled on a friend's wedding very last minute, and I was in her wedding party. The fact that she is still my friend is more a testament to her kindness than anything I have ever done. To be very honest, I don't know how I kept any friends. I did not make it easy on them. In addition to wanting to disappear into myself, depression brought along his good friend, severe anxiety. In hindsight, I've always had anxiety, but that year brought out panic attacks that left me frequently shaking out my hands because it isn't uncommon for fingers to tingle or go numb during panic attacks.

Finally, the thoughts of suicide arrived. I didn’t want to exist. More problematically, I didn’t want to get help because I couldn’t understand why I needed it. I had a job. I have great parents and lovely friends. Unlike every other time I cried, I couldn’t understand where these feelings were coming from, and I didn’t want to be labeled with a mental health problem. I went to dozens of doctors before one retested me for strep. I had it for six months without knowing. Eventually, a doctor pointed to various numbers in my chart that were low or high and explained that I couldn’t possibly be “fine.” I tried three therapists. One tried to hypnotize me which didn’t work. To be fair, I don't know if hypnosis is a hoax or I'm just too stubborn for it to ever take. Another asked if I had found God which was not useful to me. The third had me try yoga. As it turns out, I'm perfectly flexible and in shape enough that I can do yoga while crying and still having suicidal thoughts. At that point, I felt like I couldn't be helped.

When I say I thought about suicide, I didn't think about it in ambiguous terms. I walked through the process in my mind like I would walk through my schedule of things to do that day. Truly, only two things stopped me: my mom realized she was losing me and made it clear that she would follow me if I chose that path. She kept me tethered to life. I will never be able to put into words how grateful I am that she gave me life twice. Likewise, my brother and sister-in-law stepped up and forced bonding time on me which I now know was a necessity. Second, I don’t like losing. I didn’t want admit to defeat to depression.

Finally, on the fourth try, I found a psychiatrist who actually made a profound difference. t was not an overnight fix. He didn’t hand me magical pills, and it all got better. I spent time putting in the work, and I still talk to the same psychiatrist. It's as routine to me now as getting a yearly flu shot or going for an annual checkup. Without a doubt, talking to a psychiatrist was the best gift I ever gave myself.

It annoys me when books, movies, or television shows romanticize mental illness. Let me be clear. There was nothing remotely romantic or pretty about my experience. A true love's kiss doesn't fix it, and it's not a problem that can be solved in a special episode of a television show or several for that matter. My experience with depression was ugly, cold, cruel, isolating, and exhausting. It took time and work for me to even see light, let alone get my feet back on the ground. I can't emphasize enough how horrific that year of my life was.

Did I get through it? Yes, my family didn't really accept "no," and my friends stuck around in spite of my very poor behavior. Did the experience make me a better person? Yes, I don't pass up the chance to celebrate now, and I feel actual empathy for people who are also struggling. I thought I did prior to that year, but going through depression deepened my understanding of emotions. Do I want to go through it again? Hell no. Dante didn't make a return trip to hell to make sure he got the details right after he escaped, and I have zero interest in ever going through that again.

I frequently wonder if it wouldn’t have taken me as long to get help if I didn’t think depression/anxiety had a stereotypical look. I wonder if it would have helped if more people spoke openly about mental health at the time. I wonder why most people feel pressured to say “I’m fine” when asked how they are.

Mostly, I wish I could go back and tell my 25 year old self, “It’s okay to not be okay all of the time, and it’s also more than okay to ask for help. You can and will get through this. Your life is absolutely worth every minute of the fight.”

In the past, when I've mentioned I had a run in with depression, I glossed over the details and blurred the sharp edges to make the picture a little prettier. Prior to writing this post, I think maybe five people at most knew the extent. I don't know if I talked about it in an eclipsed and fleeting matter to make the other person more comfortable or to assure myself that I was okay. Either way, I made a mistake. Depression is uncomfortable, and I owe it to people who are currently suffering from it to not distort the picture. My scarlet letter is "D" for depression, and if my putting a face and name to it helps someone, I can handle wearing it.

If you are feeling depressed or are having suicidal thoughts, please reach out for help. Your life is also worth the fight. Links to hotlines are posted below.

https://suicidepreventionlifeline.org/talk-to-someone-now/